


Chiaroscuro

by LibraLibrary



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: F/F, Fix Fic, Referenced possible death of a minor, Spoilers for Shadow War, amateur magic usage, gay culture is refusing to die and being ur gfs shadow for awhile, its gay lads, we support sad goth and badass pastel baby gays in this house, webby and the triplets are siblings behave guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 11:22:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15728397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LibraLibrary/pseuds/LibraLibrary
Summary: MAJOR S1 FINALE SPOILERSFive minutes after the defeat of Magica de Spell, the McDuck-Duck clan begins to mourn.Five days after that, they get to work.Hey, they’ve pulled off miracles before, right?





	Chiaroscuro

**Author's Note:**

> Lena deserves better @frank bring her back also I wrote this whole thing between panels at a con I don’t care if it sucks I needed to feel better
> 
> Webby is a young lesbian and more powerful than God himself

The moon is full and bright over the manor tonight, which isn’t an eclipse of course, really more the exact opposite, but you’ve all collectively decided that this is probably a good thing. You’ve spent the better part of an entire month combing the mystic tomes you’d hidden away in an act that was more unrestrained curiosity than teenage rebellion. You had almost expected Uncle Scrooge (you call him that still, because you know his words, painful as they were, were spoken in frustration and defense, and when have you ever been one to hold a grudge?) to be angry about the spellbooks you’d smuggled into your room, especially after that horrible eclipse night. But Scrooge McDuck has always been full of surprises, so when the family gathered for your sheepish presentation of the secret treasures, he beamed with a pride you’ve chased your whole life.

“Aye, good thinkin’ lass. Now let’s get’er back.”

You’d like to think of yourself as a fast learner (at least that’s what granny calls you, others might say “obsessive” instead, and really both are an accurate description), and this whole month has been a rollercoaster of grief and hope, so when you insist upon trying this at the soonest opportunity, the next full moon, nobody objects. None of them were as close to Lena as you were, as you are, but you can see it in their eyes that they want her back just as bad. Those first few days, when you were are certain she was “dead” and gone forever (some of the saddest days of your young life so far, you don’t even know how many times you had to step aside and fall apart), the air of victory and homecoming and reconciliation had been tinged with the sour sting of grief. The boys had walked on eggshells around you. Uncle Scrooge gave you sad looks and ruffled your hair with an affection the rest of the world should be sorry they’ll never know.

At one point, you swear you caught granny quickly wiping a few tears from behind her glasses as you passed by the subway entrance.

But that was before that night, maybe four or five days into your grieving process, when the darkness and silence of your room and the echoes of hysterical laughter and inane, but precious in hindsight, slumber party banter became too much to stand anymore. Granny hadn’t asked questions when you’d brought your old nightlight out of storage, even though it had been years since you’d grown past the need for it. You’d curled up under the covers, turned away from the soft amber light fighting a losing battle to tint the cold room with a warmer, softer mood, and prepared yourself for another restless night staring at the wall, searching your own shadow for answers.

That night, your shadow stared back, a faint blue shade overlaying the shape that is decidedly _not_ your own.

In your own defense, you had every reason to shriek at the top of your lungs and wing a pillow at the wall in a panic; you’d just survived a war against weaponized shadows after all. It was when the shadow recoiled, tossing it’s (her, _her_ ) fringe in annoyance and holding up her hands in a “what the heck was that???” gesture that the panic immediately drained from your tense form, instantly supplanted by a shaky, stunned hope. You hadn’t even noticed when granny kicked down your door, the entire rest of your family clustered around her with improvised weaponry to teach whoever or whatever had threatened you a very painful lesson, nor when half of them immediately dropped their arms in surprise.

You can’t remember telling your arm to lift from the disheveled covers, or for your hand to press against the wall next to the shadow, fingers uncurling and trembling palm flattening against the cool surface.

“....Lena?”

The shadow smiled, her expression, though slightly obscured by the solid shape composing her form, so soft and sweet you could feel a few opportunistic tears streak down your face. Her own arm lifted, hand coming up to press against your’s, and the friendship bracelet dangling from your wrist took on a familiar, soothing blue glow.

Behind you, Launchpad had immediately burst into tears, and a wet, incredulous laugh tore itself from your throat.

“You’re still here!”

~*~

The rest of the month had been a paradox, both rushing by in a whirlwind of activity and inching past at an agonizing crawl. You’d hauled out your spellbooks, Uncle Scrooge had Quackfaster send every book on magic and shadows and summoning spells to the manor, and Lena herself had even led you to her own stash of arcane texts in her darkened hideout, Huey holding up a bright LED lantern to keep her visible as she silently gestured to her own secret library. The entire family had taken up scanning the old books to expedite the process, though you personally went back and read every single text yourself. You had to _know_. You had to be _sure_.

Days were spent as a family in Uncle Scrooge’s study, formulating a game plan and double checking with Lena on whether she thought it would work. She may have been a novice, a sorceress in training under Magica’s guidance, but she still has more experience than any of you, and just happens to be a fragment of an obscenely powerful witch. She might be helpless to free herself from her two-dimensional prison, but she still deserves to play a part in her liberation.

She deserves the world, and by god you’re going to give it to her. You swear it. You’ll take her to the ends of the earth, all the way to the moon if she asks, once you’ve brought her back to the physical realm.

At night, after everyone had finally stumbled off to their rooms, exhausted but resolute, you would turn on a bedside lamp and continue to stare at the wall, though it had very quickly become much more interesting. Lena would sit with you all night, listening as you shared your favorite tales of the McDuck-Duck trio and their adventures, and then the trips you’ve gone on with your family that she wasn’t able to join, and then just whatever you could think of. If she’s ever gotten bored or annoyed by your constant talking, she’s never shown it, listening with rapt attention and responding, limited as she is in her methods of communication, when you would ask a question, or say something worth a reaction. You’d talk for hours, until you either fell asleep or ran out of things to say, and she’d watch and listen the whole time, smiling at you with her chin resting in her hand as you drifted off.

Anytime you woke up, whether gently in the soft morning light after a rare restful night, or, more often, jerked away with a gasp after another nocturnal rerun of your best friend _dying_ in front of your eyes, she’d still be there, sitting on the wall above your bed. On good mornings she’d tilt her head happily, her own silent greeting, and it almost made you feel like things had reached a happy normalcy. On bad nights, she’d be standing against the wall, eyes wide, reaching out in your direction as if she could touch you, put her hand on your shoulder, pull you into a hug. The fact that she couldn’t, that she wouldn’t until- _if_ you could give her back what Magica had taken from her, would leave a painful, burning sensation in the back of your throat. You’d drag yourself closer to the wall, pressing your palm flat and trying to take comfort in the faint sensation of the magic that she’s made of coming into contact with your hand as she mirrored your touch.

~*~

Louie had been the one to find the discarded friendship bracelet during an expedition to the amphitheater, and you had almost tackled him into the ocean when he’d peeled the soaked artifact of a more innocent night off the rock it had been caught on. Lena had clapped her hands excitedly, more gleeful and childlike than you’d ever seen her, and you knew then that you had your physical anchor for the ritual. Huey had traced and retraced the sigils you’d selected from the most promising spell book for the past two weeks, and now he and Fenton are painstakingly recreating the markings on the floor of the study. The furniture has all been pushed out of the way, candles dot just about every flat surface in sight, and Duckworth is on standby in case this beginners attempt at professional grade magic draws the ire of something unkind. If you’re being honest, despite all of the preparations and intense study, this is a very rushed event, and you know on some level this is probably a bad idea. The McDuck-Duck family has pulled off their fair share of miracles and close calls for sure, but this feels...different. This isn’t besting the well-laid traps of an ancient monument, or sparking a revolution in a lost tribe.

This is giving your best friend her life back, and you are terrified out of your mind.

But you have to _try_.

Gyro squints up at the full moon as it rises, mouthing quiet equations before turning and nodding. Uncle Scrooge takes a deep breath, turning to you and the visibly anxious shadow at your feet. His grim, thoughtful frown instantly melts into something softer, and he puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. He glances down at Lena, who wrings her dark hands and seems to flinch at the eye contact. The corner of his mouth twitches upward in a half smile, and his tone sounds vaguely amused, like he’s referencing an inside joke he has with the incorporeal girl.

“We made a deal, lass. It’s time I kept it.”

With his free hand, he slips the cord up and over his head, the dime attached to the end glinting softly as it slowly sways in the candlelight. Uncle Scrooge turns his gaze back to you, eyes soft and warm with all the paternal love he’s been unable to express these last ten years.

“I’m proud of ye,” he murmurs, placing the dime in your hand, “me darlin’ Webbigail.”

The ritual hasn’t even begun, and you’re already in tears. You can feel your granny’s affectionate gaze on you as you quickly throw your arms around your Uncle, taking half a second to bask in the weight of his arms coming around your tiny shoulders to reciprocate the gesture. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself, and the dime in your hand softly pulses with the traces of Magica’s power left behind when she broke free. As you step back, you wrap the salvaged friendship bracelet around the precious artifact. Both items begin to glow the same soft blue as Lena does at your feet, and out of the corner of your eye you see her shudder and shake her head.

Something’s already happening. You only hope she’ll be able to warn you if it’s something bad.

“Webby?”

You glance over your shoulder at Dewey, and he shoots you a smile. He’s ready to pay back all the help you gave him with his own search for answers and closure, and for a second you wonder what on earth you did to deserve not just one, but three, brothers who would move heaven and earth for you. Huey and Louie stand beside him, the former going over the outline of the ritual that he painstakingly plotted out, and the latter shooting you a slightly shaky but genuine thumbs up. You give them one last smile, turn around, and step into the circle of sigils.

The moment both of your feet are planted firmly on the designated symbols, Dewey tosses the lit torch in his hand into the fireplace, and the instant burst of light throws your shadow, your Lena, into the circle opposite you. The faintly illuminated circles of her eyes gaze up at you in wonder, and even though she’s flat against the floor and you’re looking down at her, you feel tiny. You still feel her, the idea of her, towering above you, making your heart beat fast and your knees shake.

Even as a silhouette, she’s the most beautiful person you’ve ever met.

The words tumble out of your mouth with no effort, voice steadier than it’s been in weeks.

_**“Shadow that was born in the darkest night…”** _

The mere opening of the incantation has an effect, and the chalk sigils around you light up the same blue as Lena and the artifacts. If you listen carefully, you can just make out the sound of your family stepping back a bit in surprise, though they stand their ground around the circle. They need to see this. They need to see you in the moment of either your greatest triumph, or your most bitter failure. You reach your arm out towards the center of the circle, letting the dime slip from your hand to spin at the end of the cord tangled in your fingers.

_**“I invite the soul back to live in the light…”** _

The laws of physics should be slowing the motion of the dime, but your best friend is a shadow and the natural laws don’t apply here. The coin spins faster as the glow becomes more intense, and in the faint light you can see Lena squinting, more in concentration than the glare, as she tries to will her being to reach out to the magic that’s calling to her above.

_**“With feathers and flesh all soft and warm…”** _

Your eyes are watering now, half from the intensity of the glow and half from the fear and sorrow and hope of the past month returning for a final, earth shattering burst of emotion. Under the glare, you can just barely make out a path of motion, as a dim shape rises up from the floor, reaching for the dime and the bracelet looped around it like the lifeline it is.

The final line of the incantation tears it’s way out of your throat as you shut your eyes.

_**“I bid thee come back to your physical form!”** _

Something solid tugs the dime, and even the darkness behind your eyelids whites out as a pulse of magic sweeps the room. As the other inhabitants of the room cry out and stumble, you fall backwards out of the something, yanking your hand and the dime back, and dragging something down with you.

Something solid. Something soft, and warm, and _breathing_.

You’re sitting on the floor now, holding your breath, feeling the soft but quick _tha-thump tha-thump_ of a heartbeat in your arms, and the weight of a head on your shoulder. Nobody’s making a sound, just the gentle crackle of the hearth behind you and the quiet breathing of you, your audience, and the gangly thing in your arms.

You steel your nerves, and open your eyes, met with a sparkling, misty pair of dark doe eyes not a foot from your own. The expression in those eyes takes your breath away; it’s gratitude, it’s _reverence_.

She looks at you the same way you’ve always looked at her.

“Hi Webby,” she murmurs breathlessly, in the softest voice you’ve ever heard.

Her fingers are tangled with your’s, wrists pressed together as her the glow of her friendship bracelet recedes. There’s tears streaming down your face now, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Hi, you...you _beautiful idiot!”_

You pull her as close as you possibly can, resting your forehead against her’s as you sob and tremble. She’s crying too, letting out a month worth of pain and uncertainty as she clings to you, and your peripheral vision is filled with blurs of color as your brothers rush to your side, throwing their arms around the both of you. Fenton and Launchpad are whooping and celebrating somewhere off to the side, and you can sense your granny falling to her knees behind you before you feel her gather up your tangled pile of crying children into her arms, holding the five of you close and whispering just how proud she is of you.

When Lena shifts in your arms, you open your eyes and follow her gaze. Uncle Scrooge is kneeling beside the lot of you, and your first instinct is to detangle your hand from Lena’s grip (though it’s almost painful to do, you’ve been desperate for that touch for a month now) and move to hand back his dime, but…

He’s not paying attention to the dime. His eyes are on Lena, bright and friendly, and he playfully tips his hat. “Welcome _home_ , Lena.”

She’s flinging herself forward to give him a hug before you think to do it yourself, and suddenly the world’s richest duck is falling backwards, startled but laughing, as several young ducks collide with him, adding one more member of this ever expanding family to the group hug as the other adults make their way over to join the celebration.

Trapped in the middle of the tightest embrace you’ve ever experienced in your young life, you and Lena share a glance. The look of absolute adoration hasn’t faded one iota, and she rests her head against yours.

_“Thank you.”_

The flames in the fireplace softly flicker behind you, casting trembling, lifeless shadows into the dim room around you, and you’ve never felt safer in the dark.


End file.
